Tess of the d'Urbervilles eBook

“Tess, fie for such bitterness!” Of course
he spoke with a conventional sense of duty only, for
that sort of wondering had not been unknown to himself
in bygone days. And as he looked at the unpracticed
mouth and lips, he thought that such a daughter of
the soil could only have caught up the sentiment by
rote. She went on peeling the lords and ladies
till Clare, regarding for a moment the wave-like curl
of her lashes as they dropped with her bent gaze on
her soft cheek, lingeringly went away. When he
was gone she stood awhile, thoughtfully peeling the
last bud; and then, awakening from her reverie, flung
it and all the crowd of floral nobility impatiently
on the ground, in an ebullition of displeasure with
herself for her niaiserie, and with a quickening
warmth in her heart of hearts.

How stupid he must think her! In an access of
hunger for his good opinion she bethought herself
of what she had latterly endeavoured to forget, so
unpleasant had been its issues—­the identity
of her family with that of the knightly d’Urbervilles.
Barren attribute as it was, disastrous as its discovery
had been in many ways to her, perhaps Mr Clare, as
a gentleman and a student of history, would respect
her sufficiently to forget her childish conduct with
the lords and ladies if he knew that those Purbeck-marble
and alabaster people in Kingsbere Church really represented
her own lineal forefathers; that she was no spurious
d’Urberville, compounded of money and ambition
like those at Trantridge, but true d’Urberville
to the bone.

But, before venturing to make the revelation, dubious
Tess indirectly sounded the dairyman as to its possible
effect upon Mr Clare, by asking the former if Mr Clare
had any great respect for old county families when
they had lost all their money and land.

“Mr Clare,” said the dairyman emphatically,
“is one of the most rebellest rozums you ever
knowed—­not a bit like the rest of his family;
and if there’s one thing that he do hate more
than another ‘tis the notion of what’s
called a’ old family. He says that it
stands to reason that old families have done their
spurt of work in past days, and can’t have anything
left in ’em now. There’s the Billets
and the Drenkhards and the Greys and the St Quintins
and the Hardys and the Goulds, who used to own the
lands for miles down this valley; you could buy ’em
all up now for an old song a’most. Why,
our little Retty Priddle here, you know, is one of
the Paridelles—­the old family that used
to own lots o’ the lands out by King’s
Hintock, now owned by the Earl o’ Wessex, afore
even he or his was heard of. Well, Mr Clare
found this out, and spoke quite scornful to the poor
girl for days. ‘Ah!’ he says to her,
’you’ll never make a good dairymaid!
All your skill was used up ages ago in Palestine,
and you must lie fallow for a thousand years to git
strength for more deeds!’ A boy came here t’other
day asking for a job, and said his name was Matt,
and when we asked him his surname he said he’d
never heard that ’a had any surname, and when
we asked why, he said he supposed his folks hadn’t
been ’stablished long enough. ‘Ah!
you’re the very boy I want!’ says Mr Clare,
jumping up and shaking hands wi’en; ‘I’ve
great hopes of you;’ and gave him half-a-crown.
O no! he can’t stomach old families!”